


Watching Through Our Fingers

by Snowflake8



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Dubious Competition, Fangirl-era canon, Fantasizing, First Time, Just a Significant Amount of Nonsense Okay, M/M, Masturbation, Pornographic Pining, Roommates to lovers, They Did Not Think This Through, emotional smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9496685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowflake8/pseuds/Snowflake8
Summary: Having a roommate was really the worst for anything involving privacy.Especially wanking.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks as always to my beta readers, and particularly to [standalone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/pseuds/standalone), who was _instrumental_ at several key points and whose suggestions were shamelessly lifted near-verbatim in several others. 
> 
> The majority of this was written pre-Carry On release, so it's pretty much independent of that. Though some influence has undoubtedly snuck in. The author would suggest not thinking too hard about any of this, honestly. 
> 
> Characters property of Rainbow Rowell, abject apologies, etc.  
> Title from the Bastille song "Good Grief."

 

1.

To be fair, the first was just bad timing.

Everyone has dreams, sometimes. Baz tried not to encourage it, but going to bed in the same room as him, every night.... Sometimes he was too tired. Sometimes he didn't have the energy, let alone the willpower, to resist watching Simon.

Simon Oliver bloody Snow—roommate (for seven years), Chosen One (complete with ridiculous square jaw, impossible sense of justice, and obnoxious mentor), arch-enemy (still? maybe? things had been rather less fraught since Baz had pulled him back from falling off the Endless Staircase at the end of last year; an impulsive action but one Baz couldn’t regret), impossible, unrequited secret crush (most certainly, _because you are an utter fool, Tyrannus Basilton Pitch_ ). Simon Snow—who slept with no shirt for at least half the year, and sometimes made tiny murmuring noises.

Other times Simon would twitch and shiver and, occasionally, whimper in his sleep. And not in the good way. (Usually.) Baz knew it was nightmares—Simon had had them for years. (So had Baz, for that matter.) Mostly Baz would lie there helplessly, wishing pointlessly that he could make it stop. That he could stroke that caramel hair and whisper hushing nonsense into his ear. That he could wake him with... with a kiss, and squeeze him tight enough to still the jerking limbs. (The way he wished Simon would squeeze _him_ after a nightmare, when his back was crawling with terror and he was biting into a pillow to keep from crying out.)

But those whimpers. It didn't take much for Baz's brain to alter that, just enough to fuel some really desperately hot dreams, whether he wanted it to or not. (He wasn’t proud of it; he knew well enough that he was disturbed.)

Tonight, Simon was finally mostly still, and Baz was drifting off at last, he could feel the cool air from the open window. His eyes slid closed, but his quarter-waking mind could still see Simon... could imagine that that little sigh earlier was for him.

It was so late, and he was weak, as usual. Dwelling on impossibilities... What if…

_What if I just reached out and ran my fingers over that bare shoulder, what if he leaned into it, what if he made a sound like that little, settling sigh earlier, what if he stretched the way he sometimes does, what if he reached back…_

Baz was mostly asleep, and everything was on autopilot. His own sigh, the way his hips started to rock against the mattress, the way his hand slipped up and into his own hair, though that woke him a little more. His brain was vague and fuzzy and restless, and he rocked a little quicker. Usually he didn't wake up till everything was finished, after, a sticky, heated, fading dream, rather disappointing. But at this point he was barely thinking, and he was more than half-hard already, and everything was distant and indistinct, non-verbal, practically a dream anyway, just a little more, and—

Baz thrust against the mattress again, his breathing picking up. Then his traitorous eyes opened slowly, looking across the space between their beds, where the moonlight fell onto Simon—

And reflected off his eyes, the blue washed out by the pale glow.

Simon's open eyes.

Baz tried to freeze. He still felt hot and groggy with sleep and arousal, and now embarrassment, and maybe he was confused, because now Simon's eyes were closed. Had he just imagined it? They were closed tight though, tighter than usual, Baz would have said, if he were the sort of person who happened to note exactly how his roommate’s eyelids tended to bunch up in sleep. He probably wasn't imagining the slightly odd breathing, though. Or the lack of whimpering.

Baz took a breath himself, something slow and steadying. He was too awake now.

He turned over, shifting uncomfortably, but if Simon was still awake, well. There wasn't much to be done.

Only one more year of this. And then he was never, ever going to have a bloody roommate again, dammit.

He squeezed his eyes shut and held rigidly still, trying to visualize the moonlit ceiling and count all the textured shadow-goats that his mind always insisted on seeing up there, till he drifted into vague, slightly anxious, decidedly non-sexy dreams about trying to herd something just out of sight.

2.

Three days later, it was bad timing _and_ his bloody roommate's fault.

Two nights of tormentingly sexy dreams and Simon bloody Snow walking around the room without a shirt even more than usual, if that was even possible. They’d had to work together in chemistry class that morning, leaning in over the Bunsen burner, and the combination of nerves from the open flame and the overwhelming smell of Simon's apple-scented hair meant that Baz was antsy and turned on to start with.

Then Snow was off to Intermediate Magickal Latin, and Baz's next lesson was canceled, due to some stupid fourth year messing about with honey-related proverbs, and the classroom and corridor halls ending up so sticky that the floor was stealing people’s shoes. Baz wasn’t about to lay down his jacket or jumper to rescue himself or any other idiot, so he quickly retreated back to the dormitory.

He had been planning to collect some things from the room, and once he got there… well. An empty room for a whole hour before dinner. He was feeling weird and empty himself, off-kilter from the change in his normal routine, but also too keyed up to let that opportunity just pass by.

The light in the room was cold and strange, melancholy and tinted blue through the overcast sky outside, and the half-open curtains. He didn’t turn on the lights.

Maybe it had been a mistake, coming here. It wasn’t the place to go to escape from his roommate, or from the scent of his roommate. And he was tired—he’d been out late in the catacombs the night before, without much success. And he was _thirsty,_ which amped up his sense of smell. Wanting, wanting, wanting. Maybe he should take a nap. Maybe he should skip this and just go hunting. But he could do that at night… and he never just had the room to himself. The showers were all very well, if communal, but to be able to sit back on something soft….

He sat down on his bed and slowly loosened his tie, undid his two top buttons, then made it three.

As a rule, Baz tried not to be creepy about it, he did try. He tried to keep his mental images generic, or rely on celebrities or porn like normal, non-creepy people. It even worked sometimes.

But today, damn it all, today... Even his clothes smelled like Simon Snow. Today he had reached over to add some essence of jonquil to the solution in the beaker and Simon had grabbed him around the wrist, stilling his hand, snarking at him almost playfully for being the forgetful one for once (he was _distracted_ , all right? Simon sitting far, far too close for any semblance of peace of mind), and Baz had sat transfixed at the feel of Simon's fingers, hot against his own cool skin.

There was no mark. Of course there was no mark. But his wrist still felt branded.

He scooted back against the wall, arranging pillows and blankets for more comfort. The cold, dim light and the high ceiling made him feel exposed and chilly, and he nestled in, hoping for a little warmth, a little pressure against his skin. He felt untethered, all his mental joints a little too loose, and he curled up a bit more.

 _Get to it,_ he told himself, _you haven’t got all day._

Still, no need to rush entirely, he thought, letting his fingers slide between the buttons of his shirt. He wriggled his trousers off his hips and ran his hands up and down his thighs a few times. He felt disheveled, and slightly ridiculous, and a little fierce about it, because why should he feel ridiculous? It had clearly been just too long. Impatiently, he cast a spell onto his left hand ( _ **slippery as an eel**_ ) and reached into his pants, working his cock with it, slowly.

Gods, everything smelled like Simon, everything. When he closed his eyes he couldn’t _not_ imagine his stupid, beautiful face. He tried to picture it amused, instead of hateful for once. It wasn’t as hard as he would’ve thought—there’d been more moments of amusement lately. And it was horrible, because he couldn’t stop that little bubble of hope inside. (Stupid hope, useless hope. He shouldn’t indulge.)

You should be imagining the two of you fighting, he chastised himself. That was far more realistic. Easy to picture, even. He thought of Simon’s hand on his wrist and shivered; imagined them struggling, sweaty, hearts pounding, and obviously Baz would win, except he couldn’t bear to imagine fear and disgust on Simon’s face.

He shook his head—he was too thirsty to entertain this scenario right now—too dangerous—could already feel his fangs trying to pop, and _that_ was definitely further than he was willing to go. (At least consciously. Dreams at night were a whole different matter, but he couldn’t help _those_ , could he. He still didn’t have to _encourage_ it.)

So instead he raised the one arm over his head, the stone of the wall rasping against the back of his hand, and imagined Simon holding his wrist there almost softly (gods, this was a different kind of danger, but), leaning over him, not letting go, pushing close. His skin prickled, _aching_ , and he’d gone this far, why not let himself imagine Simon’s warm hands sliding over him, underneath his shirt, pressing firm, anywhere, everywhere—against his chest, his sides, his arms, his cock, up his legs, the back of his neck— _gods, Simon—_

He panted, head tipping back against the wall, and… almost…

Cool air from the suddenly open door abruptly registered on his warm cheek and damp forehead.

Baz froze, hand stilling, and his gut twisted uncomfortably. For just a moment he looked at the ceiling, but he couldn’t even hope that it wasn’t… because of course it was.

Simon bloody Snow, standing in the doorway, dripping shoes in hand, in just his trousers and stocking feet and a vest and his bloody _tie_ draped loosely around his neck ( _sticky floors must’ve spread,_ Baz’s brain observed distantly), tousled and _staring_.

Baz closed his eyes. He wanted to dive under the already mostly-obscuring blankets, but that seemed needlessly dramatic, even to him. Thank every god and faerie that at least he wasn’t in the habit of being _loud_ , but...

“How long have you been standing there, Snow.” He didn’t bother to make it a question.

“Uh.”

Long enough, then.

There was a long moment of silence, while Baz tried to slow his shaky breathing.

“And exactly how long are you going to keep standing there?” Baz said as acidly as possible.

“Uh, uh, sorry,” Simon stammered, and practically fled the room. So fast that the door didn’t close entirely.

Baz swore loudly, grabbed his wand off the bedside table, and spelled it shut. He was still antsy and shivery all over, but the mood was definitely broken. Who knew when the prat would decide to come back. _Forget it,_ he thought, irritably, and got up, rinsing his hand in the sink, grabbing his jumper and trying to smooth his hair, and headed out to sneak down to the forest. It was cold enough outside, and he was thirsty anyway.

 

3.

The third time….

“So. Um. Are we going to talk about the other day?” Simon asked.

Baz looked up from his desk, blinking. It was Sunday afternoon, two days later (two days of more or less normal levels of avoidance), and they were studying in the room. Not together or anything. Baz had come in earlier from lunch, planning to collect a few things and retreat to the library, but it was warm in the room, sunlight curtaining gentle and shimmering across the floor, even onto Baz’s bed. Warmth seemed so hard to come by lately, even though he’d slipped out in the wee hours this morning to hunt. (Which was the nice way of saying that Baz was cold, cold, _cold,_ all the goddamn time.)

So it was warm in the room, and he’d found Simon lying upside down on his bed, legs propped up on the wall, face buried in a book. It was a ridiculous position to work in (his gray trouser legs inching up his knobby ankles), but Simon had seemed engrossed enough that Baz supposed he probably wouldn’t have to put up with any of those awkward, skidding glances that had punctuated the low tension of the last two days.  _ It’s my room, too _ , he thought stubbornly, and decided to just use his desk as nature (or more likely the board of Watford governors) intended. It seemed all right, and he’d been deep in his Politickal Science notes for the past hour. 

Simon was still upside down, and his head was tilted backwards off the edge of the bed, hair appearing oddly suspended, to let him look… up? down? over? at Baz now. He appeared to be waiting for an actual answer.

 

After two whole days, Baz had thought they were just never going to speak of it, and anyway, he wouldn’t have thought… First of all, since when did they _talk_ about anything? Secondly, he wouldn’t have thought that the precious Mage’s Heir would deign to discuss such crass matters. He raised an eyebrow, then looked back down at his books.

But evidently Simon was determined. He turned and squirmed till he was upright again, cross-legged on his bed and facing Baz full on. “Oh, come on, Baz. The other day, when I walked in here and you were…” He made a vague gesture, and then made a face.

Baz felt his cheeks warm slightly. “It's _normal_ , Snow, so you can just back off, you sanctimonious—”

Simon was already raising his hands defensively. Maybe that face before had been at himself. “No, no—Crowley, Baz, I'm not—I was just... just curious.”

“Curious?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t….”

Now Baz set down his book, turning a bit in his chair and goggling. “Are you telling me you never—”

“Not _never_. Just. Not very often.”

Baz cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, I'm busy,” Simon said, weakly. Which was actually rather funny, but then he followed it with: “And just... I'm not very good at it, is all.”

 _Merlin give me strength._ “What on earth is that supposed to mean.”

Simon rubbed the back of his neck, looking out the window. “I mean, it's okay, it's fine, it's just... not very satisfying?”

 _What?_ “What?”

“Are you telling me you don't prefer to be with… _with_ someone?”

Baz shrugged. Abruptly, he wanted to wrap his arms around himself and squeeze, but he restrained himself. Truth be told it had been a while. Quite a while. After Raj, and Ioan... Baz had decided it wasn't really fair to anyone. It wasn’t fair, or… or _gentlemanly_. Not to mention they could bloody well tell when he wasn’t thinking about them while… definitely not gentlemanly.

He was _not_ talking about _that_ with _Simon._ So he just shrugged again. “Sounds like you're just doing it wrong, Snow.”

“How can I be doing it _wrong_.”

“Trust you to find a way. You just _said_ you weren't very good at it, didn’t you.”

“What, and you're some kind of expert?”

“Compared to you, apparently.” Baz held back a wince as soon as he spoke _(are you_ really _bragging about being an_ expert wanker _, Basilton?)_ , but Simon didn’t seem to be interested in baiting him, or at least not for the purposes of mocking him.

Simon shook his head vehemently. “Only one way to find out.” He had that look of challenge in his eye.

“Oh Crowley,” Baz muttered to himself, but Simon just barreled along: “A race.”

“A _race?_ I hate to have to tell you this, but speed isn't exactly the goal.”

“Maybe it should be sometimes. Is _that_ why you always take so long in the showers?” Before Baz could splutter out a response, Simon was continuing. “And anyway, it could be a reverse race.”

“You're an absolute loon. How would that even work?”

Simon said, “You know… last one to finish…”

Baz rolled his eyes. “All you’d have to do is think about pavement or, or football statistics or something, since you claim you’re so terrible at wanking anyway—”

“I didn’t say terrible!”

“—and probably have no sexual imagination to speak of since you’re _too busy_ for such things—”

Simon practically squawked with outrage.

“And anyway this is stupid, Snow. Any idiot can pull themselves off. We’re teenage boys, it’s hardly—”

“If you have such a ‘great imagination’ maybe we should up the stakes, see if you can talk and wank at the same time,” snapped Simon.

Baz was already tired of hearing himself say _What_ but he still said, “What?”

Simon’s jaw was set. “You know. Describe. What you think about.”

What a nightmare. Baz turned his head away, willing himself not to blush. “You don't want to know what I think about.”

A pause. “I already know you're gay, Baz, it doesn't bother me.” If Baz hadn’t known better, he’d say Simon’s voice was reassuring, of all things.

Baz found himself standing, and taking a step back from his desk. “You....”

“Of course I know. Everyone knows you and Raj Singla were going out back in fifth year.” He paused a moment and tapped his teeth with a fingernail, slowly. “I know a lot of things, Baz.”

“You really—” Baz stopped and swallowed, trying to gather himself. (He wasn’t prepared to even acknowledge the second comment, so he let it lie for now.) He sat down on the edge of his bed with an effort at carelessness. “Just because you know I'm gay it doesn't just follow that you want to _hear_ about it, Snow. In sordid detail.” He attempted a leer.

Simon shrugged. Hesitated, then: “I think I'm bi.”

“You what you're what, _what?”_

“Crowley, Baz, take a breath.” Simon’s voice was light, but there was a distressed note to it, and he moved restlessly. “Forget it.”

“No, Si—Snow. I'm sorry, I was just... startled.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “‘Startled’?”

Baz waved a hand. “Startled. Why... what makes you think you're bi?”

Simon shifted uneasily, looking out the window, but answered. “Because I liked kissing Aaron Cooper last summer just about as much as I liked kissing Agatha back when we were dating?”

“You kissed Aaron Cooper? Great snakes, he's such a prat, how could you stand it?” _Aaron Cooper?_ Aaron Cooper absolutely _was_ a prat, Baz was appalled at Simon’s abysmal taste. And not about to admit to any other emotions gnawing at his stomach at the thought.

“Well...” Simon clearly couldn't argue. “But a prat who really knows how to kiss.”

Baz rubbed his right temple with two fingers and heroically refrained from groaning. “Are you telling me... what exactly are you telling me?”

“Nothing, you're right, he's a prat, it was just the one time. But... I liked that, too. So, maybe...” He shrugged. “The point is, you've got no excuse for backing out, Pitch.”

Baz bristled at his tone. (After seven bloody years, it was like a reflex. A terrible, terrible reflex.) “Who's backing out.”

“You were. ‘You don't want to know...’ If you're too afraid—”

“Snow,” Baz practically growled it.

“—or maybe you just don't think you can do it.”

“I can always talk,” Baz snapped. “I can talk circles around _you._ ”

Simon smirked. “So prove it. You can't embarrass me.”

“Oh _really._ ”

Simon paled slightly (it really was a nicely intimidating look, Baz had practiced) but lifted his chin and grinned back. “Really. So... what do you think about. During.”

Oh Yeats, this was a terrible idea. Of course it was, it was _Simon’s_ idea. But _he’d_ brought it up. And it was his fault that Baz had been suffering for a week now. And it was (probably) too late to stop at this point. He needed to keep the situation well in hand. So to speak.

So he lounged back against his pillows, with that carefully cultivated dispassion that had been drilled into him since birth. Simon was over on his bed, leaning against the wall, watching with a look of challenge on his face. Baz let his eyes drift to half closed, enjoying the warm sunlight on his face, and then casually loosened his tie. He undid a button or two on his shirt front, then nonchalantly rolled his sleeves up a little and tucked his hands behind his head.

“All right, Snow, since you're so _very_ curious.”

“I'm just—”

“Shh. My turn to talk now, you just shut your gaping cake hole and listen. Hmm... what do I think about while I wank. Depends of course. Variety and all that. But let's say I'm wanting to take my time, get comfortable. Let's say I have the whole afternoon ahead of me, no fear of poncey roommates interrupting.” (As if _that_ would ever happen, as if that wasn’t the very source of this fiasco….)

Simon started to make a noise of protest, but he caught Baz's eye, and clamped his mouth shut, stubbornly.

“Ah, he learns. Eventually. So. Warm afternoon, alone in the room, on my smooth sheets, and first I would probably just stretch out like this.” He arched his back a little, settling in further, being sure to stretch his neck. He let one hand drift down to his waist, popped open the button there, in preparation, then flexed his fingers elaborately. If that git thought he couldn't handle himself ( _oh gods, look what you’ve been reduced to, Pitch,_ he groaned internally), Baz was going to _torture_ him. He'd be sorry he ever challenged him.

“Then something like this—” Baz pressed his palm over his trousers, over his cock, already half-hard, though he wasn't going to point that out. “I mean, sometimes, who needs to think about anything in particular, right? Sometimes it's good to just feel it...

“But you're curious, that's right, so very curious. So. First I'll usually close my eyes—” he did so “—and just let my mind drift a bit. Warm afternoon, lots of time... I might think about how pleasant it would be to have someone here.”

“A certain someone?” Was he imagining that Simon's voice was a bit thick?

“Maybe. Maybe not. You don't need to know everything. Haven't you ever heard about curiosity and cats? Regardless. It would be, pleasant, you know, to have someone there, on a nice warm, lazy afternoon. Someone attractive, of course, good arms, nice and hard for grabbing onto, good firm arse. Someone who smells pleasant, his breath, his hair. I'll forgive quite a few bodily imperfections if it means someone who smells like” _apples,_ Baz just managed not to say, “something good. So. I'd lie here, imagine someone with a lovely smell, someone with hair I could run my fingers through, get a good handful. It'd be nice if he didn't mind that.” Baz paused a moment, then ventured. “Even better if he liked it.”

“Do you? Like that.”

Baz hesitated. “Under the right circumstances,” he said finally. He was getting a little nervous. The terribleness of this idea was reasserting itself.

“So go on.”

Fine. “And then I'd probably start picturing him here with me. Lying next to me, on the bed, warm, I could feel his heat through his clothes, and the mattress would dip a bit, I'd have to hold myself up a little to stay sitting up like this...” Gods, there were so many options, so many ways this could go. But in this case... he'd go a little easy. Mr. ‘I _think_ I'm bi.’ Crowley. Baz couldn't really think about that right now. How had he gotten himself in this mess? What was the goal? Just carry on, then, just follow it to the end and see what happens.

He heard Simon shifting across the room, and peeked under his eyelids at him. He was just sitting there, staring towards the window. Hadn't even undone his trousers, and now Baz was determined: _I'm_ not _going to be the only one wanking here._

“So we'd lie here together,” he said, quietly. “And maybe today I'd feel like a first time fantasy. First times are always... something special.” He hurried on.

“Lying there next to him, and we're both a little nervous. Maybe more than a little. Maybe my heart is beating far harder than normal, pounding even, and I'm afraid he can hear it, I'm afraid he'll laugh. But he's not. He just lies there and looks into my eyes, and his eyes are so blue, and I feel mesmerized. We're both still clothed, but that's not going to last long. Even though we're nervous. He lets me reach over and open his top button—he's wearing a button up, why not, Crowley knows we all do—and the next, and the next, but I get distracted because he's still staring at me, this look like he can't decide what to do first. And I get distracted, I want to finish the buttons, but my fingers are brushing his skin, and I can't help myself. It's smooth and warm and when I run the tips of my fingers lightly over his collarbones he shivers, the most exquisite shiver, skin twitching, and his lips part just a little, he breathes in, quick and small, not quite a gasp. But I want it to be. So I trail my fingers over his skin a little more, over his chest, up to his neck, around the back of his neck till I can feel the tickle of his curls and run my nails up over his scalp.

“And then he'd touch me back. He'd reach out and touch my face, his hands would be big and just a little rough because he probably never pays attention to them, ragged nails, like an idiot, but I wouldn't care. He'd run his palm over my cheek, down to my jaw, and up along it and I... um, I like that sort of thing, I'd lean into it, I wouldn't be able to hold back. There might be a moan, who can say?

“And then,” Baz took a deep breath, “then we'd kiss, and I like to think that it would be good. More than good. Just a little brush of lips to start with, a little chapped, a little rough, so softly that I'd wonder if I was dreaming. And then more, those tiny sounds when our lips stick against each other, and then... I think he's a little shy sometimes, so I'd just let my tongue flick out, just a little, just to wet my lips, and his, just to run the tip of it along his bottom lip. Then he'd gasp, or maybe that would be me, or maybe both of us, and I'd do it again, more this time, trace along both of his lips, into the corners of his mouth, and he'd whimper, and open his mouth, his hands pulling me closer. I'd pull his lip into my mouth, I'd run my tongue along it, I'd mouth at it, suck on it, worry at it gently. Gods, good kissing, it's just heaven, and I'd press in, I'd lick into his mouth, wet and hot and perfect, I'd coax his tongue into my mouth, just like I've wanted to for..." he swallowed, pulled back, "for a long time. He'd groan and push it into my mouth, a little rough, a little sloppy, because he just can't help it, and I'd push even closer. I'd definitely be pulling on his hair, I'd try not to moan but I'm pretty sure I'd fail miserably, I'd have to shut myself up by just sucking on his tongue, slick and hot and thick in my mouth, not as good as..." _too late, keep going,_ “as I hope his cock will be later, but good, so good I'd hardly be able to breathe properly. I'd have to stop for a moment, I'd be panting and whimpering and,” he shifted, “our hips would be moving, jerking, rubbing against each other. I'd suddenly remember there was more of me, that I had a body and not just a mouth and tongue, even though part of me feels like I'll never need anything else but to just kiss him for hours and hours.”

Now Baz let his left hand wander down, push his shirt open, skim across his belly, moving slowly lower. He peeked, the tiniest peek, and Simon wasn't looking out the window anymore. His mouth was hanging open slightly _(gods, don't, don't look at his mouth)_ and he was staring at Baz, eyes darting up and down like he couldn't decide where to look first—at Baz’s other arm still stretched above his head, at his smooth chest partly visible, long fingers sliding across skin, hips and tented trousers tipping just slightly, rhythmically.

“But I don't have all day, not in my head, not out of it, so... I'd imagine breaking the kiss, mouthing along his strong jawline, onto his neck, panting hot against his skin, trying not to whimper, not to sound ridiculous, just from a stupid little kiss. I'd try because I... I can't not, I'm still afraid, I can't help it... but then he'd turn his head, mouth right over my ear, and he'd... he'd say my name, the way no one ever does, the way I've always wanted him to, and... I'd...” Here Baz whimpered and let his fingers slip under his waistband. “I'd say... say his name, I'd say, _please, gods, please touch me, now, please, just...._ ” Baz closed his fingers around his prick and gasped, mewled a little, put his head back and panted. Talking. He was talking. Why? But he continued. “And he'd... he'd close his teeth around the edge of my ear, he'd trace it with his tongue, and he'd slide his hand into my trousers and do it, touch me, touch my cock, gods it would be so good. His hand would be hot, he'd slide his thumb over the tip, over my slit, and it'd already be slick and dripping, because gods, all that kissing. I'd have to have it again, I'd fight to get his mouth back on mine again, while he pulled at me, gentle, steady,” (Baz's hand echoed his words, inside his trousers) “firmly, just a little” _gasped,_ “twist at the end, at the top, light and not quite teasing, perfect.” He took a shuddering breath, his hand continuing. “And I'd have to have a minute, probably, but finally I'd whisper, against his mouth, _can I?_ And he'd just nod, quickly, frantically even. Knowing him he might even laugh a little, kind of choked and a bit desperate. So I'd reach down, I'd take a minute to pop open the button and undo his zip, because I'd want the room, and I'd wrap my fingers around him, he'd be so hard that I would be aching, I'd just squeeze for a minute, just feel him there. He has a lovely cock, so full and flushed and warm in my hand. I... I imagine his hand would squeeze back for a moment, he'd gasp a little, his other hand would clutch at my shirt. Gods, why are we still wearing clothes? I'd probably say that accidentally, I'd probably blush and he'd laugh and kiss me again, so deep I'd forget to move my hand again, even though his prick in my hand is probably the best thing I've ever felt. I'd be able to feel his heartbeat there, I'd feel it twitching, I'd want my mouth on it so badly that I'd hardly be able to stand it.”

 _This wasn't the plan,_ he thought vaguely, _but._ “I'd be just frantic. I'd push him onto his back, I'd kiss down his neck, onto his chest. I don't know if his nipples are sensitive or not. I'd get a little distracted trying to find out, licking them, nibbling them. His hands would be pulling on my shoulders, rubbing into my neck, sliding through my hair, tangling it, and I wouldn't even care, because then I'd... I'd be sliding down lower.”

Baz was breathing quickly now. He tried to slow his strokes, tried to collect his thoughts. He glanced over at Simon, and that was a huge mistake—because Simon was lying back, sprawled half sitting up, one arm over his eyes, his caramel hair unbearably tousled, his hand between his legs, moving. His trousers were open, but the angle was such that Baz couldn't quite see properly, couldn't quite see... just a few rough curls of hair, darker than those on his head. His shirt was open, and Baz could see his collarbone shining with sweat.... He swallowed hard and looked away, closed his eyes, bit his lip. Tried to breathe.

“And then?” Simon's voice was husky, but still a little taunting. “Can't go on, Pitch?”

Heat flared all through him—anger, lust, longing—and he took a deep breath and looked over again, staring defiantly. Simon wasn't looking though, just moving his fist, just twisting his wrist, just hiding his face in his other arm. Baz made himself keep watching, made himself start talking again.

“I'd. Be sliding down lower,” he said, and watched Simon. “I'd kiss down his belly, over his navel. I'd slide my hands down his sides, I'd ease his trousers and pants down, push them down over his arse, to his knees, or hell, just take them off. We'll pretend that all went smoothly. Because then, ah…” Baz closed his eyes again, breathing hard. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. “Then I'd run my hands up, up over his thighs. Massage them, I'm good at that, you know, I'd work my fingers into those long muscles till he sighed, till his legs relaxed and started to fall open. I'd crawl up closer, I'd kiss up the soft skin on his inner thigh till my nose was just resting in that crease of his hip, I'd breathe him in, the scent of him, rich and secret. I'd nuzzle into... into his bollocks, all wrinkled and prickly, soft and velvety on my cheekbones. And then I'd... I'd look up, into his—”

Baz opened his eyes, looked up. Straight into Simon's eyes—

“—blue eyes—” Baz faltered—

—because Simon was _right there,_ kneeling on the floor by Baz’s bed, his hair lit by the golden afternoon light, practically in touching distance if they were both to just sit up properly, shirt unbuttoned all the way, and he was _looking back,_ staring, those eyes, gods, always the bluest thing Baz had ever seen in his life, and he couldn't look away this time, because they were just so close, so astounding, full of heat and wonder and Baz couldn't even read them, he was so afraid and so turned on, both at once. He could barely move. He watched Simon's eyes, never leaving his, and saw him swallow.

“And?” Simon's voice was barely more than a whisper. He seemed frozen as well. Everything in the room was still. Baz could hear the clock on the wall tick, could hear the faintest shouts of students out on the Great Lawn far below the window.

 _Oh gods, I can't, I..._ “I’d… I’d look into his eyes,” Baz said, slowly, faintly. He didn’t even know how his voice was still working, his throat felt so dry. “I’d want to look away, but… but I wouldn’t be able to. Because I can’t ever look away from him. Even when my eyes are closed, I…” He bit the inside of his cheek to try to steady himself, to try to rein himself in, then started talking faster, not quite babbling. “So I’d just… just look, and breathe if I could, and then… then. I’d go ahead, I’d put out my tongue and lick up his cock, I’d just… do the best I could, considering I still wouldn’t be able to look away from him, from his face, from his eyes. I’d watch his face while I mouthed up it, to the tip, and—

“And when I finally… when I finally just sucked him, just put him in my mouth and swirled my tongue around, I’d hollow out my cheeks around him and feel him heavy on my tongue, and I... I'd moan, I wouldn't be able to hold it back, I just... I wouldn't. And I don’t know what he’d taste like, I don’t… I don’t care. He’d probably taste salty, and warm, maybe bitter, and I don’t even care, I’d just want to feel him, work my mouth around him, see his mouth fall open and his eyes get heavy—” Simon's mouth fell open a little, his pupils were enormous, and Baz was going to _die,_ “hold his hips down and feel his hands in my hair....”

And Simon broke, groaned and dropped his face onto the mattress in front of him, shoulders hunched up.

“Simon? Are you…?” Baz hesitated for a moment, then sat up a bit and reached a hand out, touching those curls (finally, _finally_ ), as softly as he could. Maybe Simon wouldn’t notice. Maybe he was already coming, maybe he wouldn’t notice, maybe Baz could pretend all this wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had in his entire life of terrible ideas.

But Simon’s hand flew up, suddenly, surprising him, and grabbed Baz’s wrist, hot on his cool skin. (And he’d been wrong before, so very wrong; this was _surely_ branding him, searing every layer of his skin, marking him down through sinew, borrowed blood, and bone.) Simon looked up slowly, not releasing him, just holding his hand in the same spot, so that his fingers trailed through Simon’s curls, and then over his cheek, over the slight scrape of stubble on his jaw. Then he tugged on it, back, till Baz’s hand was curled around the back of Simon’s neck and head, touching that hair again. Baz’s fingers flexed, involuntarily.

“Baz.”

“I....”

“Blue eyes, Baz. Really?” The words could have been sarcastic, but the tone was raw.

“I-it's just... an example...” he tried to protest, weakly. “It's just because yours were right there—”

“You said it before, too.”

Simon’s hand was so hot around his wrist. (He might spare a thought for his own flammability, if he had a single thought to spare.)

“Didn’t.”

“Did.”

“Shut up, Snow.”

“You said blue eyes,” he said, stubbornly. “And—and you called me Simon a minute ago, and I don’t know why you think you have to—”

“I certainly did not.” This pronouncement would have been more impressive if his voice wasn’t so damn breathy.

“You did so, Baz.” But then, Simon’s voice was fairly breathy as well.

“Shut up,” Baz said, weakly, and tugged at his hand, even more weakly.

“I won’t.” Blazing eyes, too blue to even be called blue, Crowley, Baz thought he was over that already. “It’s true, you called me Simon, you—and I—I liked it Baz, I…”

“You did?” Baz’s voice was even more breathy now, and he couldn’t even pretend to pull his hand away. He flexed his fingers against Simon’s scalp again—and Simon _shivered_ , and his hair was so soft.

Simon’s cheeks were apple red, but he was still looking directly at Baz, and he smiled a little sheepishly. “I liked all of it. It—it sounds, uh, pretty great, but I—I think we’re going to have to jump to the end pretty quick here.” He made a pathetic attempt at an eyebrow waggle, and Baz might have laughed if he hadn’t been so hard that it was literally painful.

“I suppose if you must interrupt,” he tried to grouse, and Simon _did_ laugh, and pushed up suddenly so that the next moment he was kneeling on the bed, and Baz was still so distracted by his stupid eyes that he couldn’t even glance down at his open trousers, and Simon was _still_ holding his wrist, now pressed into the mattress next to them as he shifted, knees on either side of one of Baz’s legs, sitting back a little. They were just about the same height like this, and Baz couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear the not-near-enough-ness of it, and he couldn’t move, his stomach was snarled with anxiety and _want_.

Simon’s eyes flicked down, then back up through his lashes, too earnest to be coy, and he breathed, “Can I?”

The sharp, shaky puff of air that escaped Baz probably would have been a whimper, if there’d been the slightest bit of sound behind it. He nodded, desperately, unable to speak. What happened to all those words that had flooded out of him earlier? He’d run dry it seemed. (And where had they even _come_ from, had he really said all that, _out loud_ , oh gods…) Then Simon leaned in, closer, and wrapped his hand (warm, a little sweaty) around Baz’s cock and Baz gasped; his whole body sort of writhed a bit, and Simon let go of his wrist, steadying himself on Baz’s shoulder, then pressed the side of his face against Baz’s, his nose almost in Baz’s ear.

“Simon, _fuck._ ” That really was a whimper, and he couldn’t even care.

And Simon took a shaky breath against Baz’s cheek and said, small and desperate, “Baz, please, touch me, just—”

Now Baz did make a sound, a groan, and he fumbled blindly; it was far too late to care about making an idiot of himself. Somehow he managed to get his palm against Simon’s prick, around it, and he was so frantic and distracted that he had no idea what he was doing, whether he was doing well, or even all right—gods, he was so _disappointed_ in himself, he should be _focusing_ … Simon gave a helpless grunt, right into his ear, and it was the hottest thing he’d ever heard and—

And oh gods, oh no, no, it was too soon, he wanted to _savor,_ he didn’t want it to be _over, not yet,_ but he couldn’t, absolutely could not… he came in a hot quick rush, neck arching, biting his tongue.

It took him at least three shaky breaths to register that Simon’s head was pressed against the crook of Baz’s neck, his mouth open and wet against Baz’s collarbone, his cock still hot and hard in Baz’s hand.

“Oh, fuck, _Simon,_ ” he said, breathing into Simon’s hair, and stroked him hard, twice, thrice, and Simon moaned against his skin and came too. It spurted, feeling strangely soft, over Baz’s hand and forearm, and he felt an utterly unreasonable and illogical sense of breathless surprise and wonder over it.

He felt amazing, and also distantly… lost. Hesitantly, he brought his clean hand up and stroked those soft curls, where Simon was slumped and panting against his shoulder. He closed his eyes. Just a minute more. He knew it was over, finished, he knew they should clean up and he absolutely did not give a single fuck. _He_ wasn’t going to be the one to break this moment, of Simon’s breath against the open edge of his shirt, and Simon’s hand hot on his bicep, even through his sleeve….

Simon’s thumb stroking his arm, slowly. And, well. That was awfully nice.

A breath. A breath. A breath. Baz wasn’t counting them. At last Simon sat up, stretching his shoulders. Baz sat very still, but he didn’t meet Simon’s eyes.

Simon looked down, and gently adjusted the waistband of Baz’s pants, tucking him away, and then his own, and _goddamnit_ , Baz hadn’t even gotten a good look, and now it was over, and he was just fucking up all over the place, wasn’t he. He tried to cling to the memory of Simon’s breath hot on his cheek, or his thumb stroking his arm, or… little things to hide away for the cold future.

Simon shifted, moving over some, off Baz’s lap. But he wasn’t climbing off the bed, or fleeing the room, and even the way he wiped his hand on the rumpled sheets wasn’t enough to make Baz protest, since he was still sitting close, leaning his head back against the wall, sweat glinting on his forehead and still breathing a little hard. Baz just wiped off his hand as well and sat motionless, eyes still closed, feeling Simon’s warmth against his arm.

“Well,” Simon said, finally. “Well, you can definitely talk.”

Baz wondered if there was still time to run off and join the foreign legion or something.

“Definitely,” Simon said again, and Baz opened his eyes and glanced over: Simon still had a slightly dazed look in his eyes. “But Baz,” he said, and Baz could see his throat working, swallowing, “my—my favorite part was earlier, though.”

He was definitely staring at Baz’s mouth.

“At the beginning,” he said, and his tongue wet his lips, and his hand came up, his fingers brushing the side of Baz’s neck, and Baz wanted to flinch, but _into_ it, not away.

His skin was buzzing all over. He couldn’t have stopped himself from leaning closer, not for a whole dragon’s hoard of gold. “Was it?”

Simon nodded, slowly.

“Can I?” Baz whispered, and Simon nodded again, and their faces were already so close together that their foreheads bumped when he did, and Baz tilted his head, softly slid their lips together, inhaled Simon’s warm breath and apple scent.

Simon hummed and pushed back, pressed him down into the pillows. It was awkward, they had to break apart, but Simon just laughed, squirmed till he was lying over and next to Baz (only elbowing him in the ribs once), and then kissed Baz again, running a hand up his stomach, over his collarbones, around the back of his neck and then along his jaw and cheek.

There was definitely a moan.

“Like that?” Simon said, his gaze intent on Baz’s face as Baz turned it into Simon’s palm and breathed.

“Gods,” Baz almost whined, “I can’t believe you were _listening.”_

“I notice stuff, okay?”

Since when, Baz thought about saying, but Simon was so warm and solid against him, putting his arms around him, and touching his tingling skin all over, and Baz wasn’t sure he could take any more shocks to the system just now.

“What else did you say? About kissing for hours and hours?”

“I don’t remember,” Baz muttered.

“Well, I do. Mostly. And we’re definitely doing that. And all of it. Can we? Okay?”

“Right now?”

“Well… next time.”

 _Next time._ Gods and faeries, poets and demons. Now there was going to be a _next time._

Simon must have seen something in his face, because he said, “Or the next—” he kissed him, “or the next—or the next—”

Baz flipped him over and pressed his face into Simon’s chest. (Bare, and warm, warm, warm.) “Shut up, you sentimental git,” he mumbled.

Simon’s chest rumbled under his cheek with laughter (his hands sliding up under Baz’s shirt, over his back), and then suddenly he began to truly giggle.

Baz peered up. “What are you on about, now?”

“The race.” Simon’s grin was unbearably smug. “You _lost,_ Baz.”

Baz snorted. “I think not,” he said, and kissed him, “ _Simon_.”

 


End file.
